was anything there for me; and there it was, David, with Sam's writing on the envelope and the English stamp and his picture inside."
Now she had in her hand a pale blue envelope with black, bold handwriting displaying characters formed with broad, sweeping flourishes which was addressed, "Mrs. Fidelia Netley, care General Delivery, Chicago." She said, "You see, I signed myself Fidelia Netley to Flora."
"Why not Fidelia Herrick?"
"I didn't tell her I was married. She didn't know I'd been married even to Sam."
"What?"
"So Sam wrote me, as I signed myself to Flora; only he added 'Mrs.' Here's his letter, David."
He took it and snatched out the enclosure.
"Dear Fida," he read the bold flourish of the words. "Who set you to asking about me? What sort is he? Not much mine, I'll wager. A much more proper person, I imagine; your letter reeks of solidarity. You're after the steady years now, aren't you? I gave you days; and you gave me days; but, my God, they were days and nights. Eleven of them, weren't they? They rise like eleven mountains over a plain of mole hills in my memory. Memory! It doesn't seem like memory at all when I dream of you; you are—"
David could read no more. Eleven days they had had together. He thought of the days of Fidelia and himself in camp and how, before their eleventh day, she wanted to break camp. He understood that better now. "What happened," he demanded, "on the eleventh day between you and Bolton?"
